


Make the Apocalypse Great Again

by LolaBlackWrites



Series: Make the Apocalypse Great Again [1]
Category: American Politics - Fandom, Donald Trump - Fandom, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Fandom, Politics - Fandom, U.S. Politics - Fandom
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen, Politics, Presidential Election
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 00:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12995436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LolaBlackWrites/pseuds/LolaBlackWrites
Summary: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are given an ultimatum by the devil: finally bring about the apocalypse or they're fired. Unsure if they can actually be fired or not, the Four Horsemen aren't anxious to find out, so they decide to manipulate the American public into electing a malleable, volatile candidate to help them achieve their ends. The book follows them through a stranger than fiction election and the early months of a presidency that seems doomed to fail at any moment until finally the fight for the universe comes to a head. Will the Four Horsemen be fired after humans are able to fend off the impending apocalypse, or will the Four achieve their goal? And if the Four Horsemen succeed, what will become of them once they've completed their mission?





	1. Breakfast at Denny's

A white minivan swung into the Denny’s parking lot, nearly running over a young man on a motorcycle. The guy on the motorcycle threw up a middle finger and pulled his bike into the spot next to the minivan, which bore a sticker proudly proclaiming “Proud Parent of an Honor Student!” The man on the motorcycle pulled off his helmet and waited for the woman in the minivan to finish fixing her lipstick in the mirror and get out of her car.

“Nice driving,” the man said when she finally opened her door.

“Sorry, D,” she said lightly, her voice devoid of the slightest bit of remorse. “I was trying to save you from that god awful motorcycle.”

“What’s wrong with my bike?” the man asked, offended.

“Seriously?” she asked. “That color is hideous. Couldn’t you have picked something like black? The Black Death was one of our better joint ventures. This . . . god, why did you pick that color?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as she leaned closer to examine the putrid, yellow-green color.

“It reminds me of the color of a corpse,” he said with a shrug. “Think of it as a power color. Besides, I couldn’t pick black,” he said as he pointed to black Ferrari parking at the other end of the lot, as far away from the other cars as possible. “Famine would’ve thrown a shit fit.”

The woman nodded and sighed heavily.

“I can’t argue with that,” she agreed.

The two watched as Famine, a tall, thin man with slicked back black hair, climbed out of the Ferrari. He buttoned his suit and, noticing the two, walked over to them across the parking lot.

“Could you have parked any further away?” the woman asked.

“What the hell is wrong with your hair?” Famine asked. “That short haircut on you is not flattering.”

“Hey, I have to blend in,” she snapped, reaching up a hand to touch the swooping, overly styled hairdo. “Do you have any idea how popular this style is with soccer moms? It’s like they have a secret rule book they all pass around to each other that requires them to get this haircut or someone will take their minivan away.”

“You look like you’re about to complain to a manager,” Famine said with a smug smile.

“Oh, fuck off, Famine,” she said.

“Do either of you know what this meeting is about?” Death interjected, not really wanting to listen to yet another argument between those two.

“No,” Famine said, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time. Pestilence shrugged nervously, shifting her purse to the other shoulder. “Do you?”

“Nope,” Death said. An uncomfortable silence hung between them. “Should we go inside?”

“I think we should wait for War,” Pestilence said, running a nervous hand through her hair. “Strength in numbers and all that.”

At that moment, an H2 redder than a stop sign roared into the parking, nearly popping up on two wheels as it took the turn, heavy rock music blaring from the stereo.

“Speak of the devil,” Pestilence said, rolling her eyes.

“Ha,” Famine said tonelessly, acknowledging the joke.

The H2 swerved around them and screeched to a stop at the other end of the parking lot, only inches away from the Ferrari. 

“Jackass,” Famine muttered, glowering. 

A moment later, a young man in a tank top and camouflage shorts hopped out of the SUV, adjusting his visor as he walked over to join the group.

“What’s up, bitches?” he said with a grin.

“You’re late, War,” Pestilence said.

He checked his watch.

“Nuh-uh,” War said, twisting his wrist to show her. “I still have one minute.”

“Well we better get inside, you know what happens when you keep her waiting,” Pestilence said impatiently.

War shuddered, the smile on his face leaving as fast as his Hummer had arrived.

“Any idea what this is about?” War asked as the four of them started to walk towards the front door of the diner.

“Nope,” said Death. “Your guess is as good as ours.”

“Well,” Famine said as he pulled the door open. “Let’s get this over with.”

It only took a couple seconds for the four to locate the devil in the nearly empty diner. She sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant, four large plates of food in front of her. Her hair was long and blonde and tied up in a perky ponytail, her skin tanned and unblemished. She wore a white tank top emblazoned with sparkly, hot pink Greek letters for the Kappa Kappa Kappa sorority.

“Ready?” Death murmured, taking a deep breath.

“I guess,” Pestilence said as they made their way around the empty tables and chairs to reach the booth. When they arrived at the table, the four of them stood there, unsure of what to say or if they should sit down. The devil didn’t look up from her pancakes and the four began to shift nervously in the awkward silence.

“Well sit down already, you look like fucking losers,” the devil said before she took a sip of her black coffee, still not looking up from the table. All four of them quickly slid into the booth. They sat silently as the devil took another bite of pancakes.

“Are these for us?” War asked tentatively, cautiously reaching for a piece of bacon.

The devil quickly lashed out her hand, quick as an asp, and smacked War’s hand away.

“No,” she said. “I’ve been busy working, so I get to eat. You four, on the other hand, are just here to listen.” She swallowed her bite and set down her fork, wiping the syrup from her hands with a paper napkin.

“Okay,” the devil said, looking up at them for the first time. “Christ, your current forms look stupid.”

“We have to blend in,” Pestilence said timidly, self-consciously reaching up to touch her hair.

“No, I get it,” the devil said. “But humans look especially stupid at the moment, so therefore you look especially stupid.” She took another sip of coffee. “Okay, enough small talk. You four are on my shit list.”

No one said anything in response.

“You have had so many opportunities to usher in the apocalypse and destroy the world. I mean, come on, between the four of you, it should be a no brainer. You starve the people,” the devil said, pointing to Famine, “you infect them,” she said, pointing to Pestilence, “you make them fight each other,” she continued, pointing to War, “and you kill them,” she finished, pointing to Death. “How hard are your jobs? I mean, for fuck’s sake, you should’ve finished this centuries ago.”

“These things can take time,” Famine said hesitantly.

“Yeah, I know the rule,” the devil said impatiently. “You have to work within the constraints of humanity to give them a fair chance to save themselves. But even so, it seems a little ridiculous that you haven’t made any significant progress.”

“What about World War II?” War asked, brightening a little. Pestilence swiftly kicked him in the shin under the table. War grunted, but didn’t say anything further.

“How many more times are you going to bring that up?” the devil asked, narrowing her eyes at War. “Yes, you convinced Hitler to exterminate millions of Jews. Yes, you got the United States to drop the atom bomb on Japan. But then what happened? The humans made the fucking Geneva Convention and now there are fucking Holocaust remembrance museums to try and prevent something similar from happening again.”

“Plus they published that girl’s diary,” Pestilence added. This time, it was War’s turn to kick her in the shins.

“Yes, exactly,” the devil agreed. 

“Well, what have you done lately that’s so great?” War demanded, glaring at Pestilence.

“I’m bringing back preventable diseases!” Pestilence exclaimed. “Do you think it’s easy to get parents to compromise their kids’ healthcare? It took ages for me to get them to believe that MMR vaccine-autism bullshit!”

“Can you get a vaccine to prevent war? No!” War exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, are we forgetting AIDS?” Pestilence asked. “Where’s the vaccine for that?”

“Meh, that’s not as effective as it once was,” Famine interjected. “It’s still killing people, but infection rates aren’t what they were.”

“And what are you doing that’s so effective?” Pestilence demanded. “How is being a banker like that time you wiped out half of Egypt with a drought?”

“I still do droughts!” Famine protested. “California doesn’t have any water!”

“And yet they still all have swimming pools and bright green lawns,” Death said, rolling his eyes.

“To answer your question, I’m doing plenty on Wall Street,” Famine said. “By slowly raising prices, I’m driving people into poverty so they can’t afford food.”

“Enter school lunch programs,” Death said. “Fixed.”

“Not all schools can afford those, haven’t you heard about all the cuts to education in this stupid country?” Famine asked. “I’m creating so many food deserts that foster poor nutrition!”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the devil finally interjected. “There’s no use in fighting because you’re all fuck ups as far as I’m concerned. Which is why I called you here.” She began to stack her empty dishes on top of one another, neatly clustering her silverware on the top. The four waited until she was finished, wiping up a few stray drops of syrup from the table with a napkin.

“I’ve had enough of your incompetence,” the devil said finally, tossing the balled up napkin on the stack of plates. “I have decided to give you one more chance to fulfill your duties as the Four Horsemen and usher in the apocalypse. One more big plan to destroy humanity and the world. If you fail, you’re fired.”  
The four stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Fired?” Death asked.

“Yes, fired,” the devil said. “So get your shit together. I’m going to check in on you soon and you’d better have a good plan in place.”  
The devil waved her hand, motioning for War and Death to scoot out of the booth so she could leave. They moved quickly, with War nearly falling on the diner floor. The devil pulled a wad of cash out of her pocket and tossed it on the table.

“That’s not for you to order lunch, that’s for the server,” the devil said, pointing to the dollar bills. “I’m the embodiment of evil and even I think servers get fucked over.”  
With that, the devil turned and left the diner, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her, leaving the Four Horsemen alone to face her ultimatum.


	2. Strategies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Four Horsemen come up with a plan to bring about the apocalypse and decide to bank on a billionaire presidential candidate.

War and Death sat back down in the booth, but no one spoke at first. The waitress came by to collect the stack of plates.

“Anything else I can get for you?” she asked brightly, her tired blue eyes belying her cheery tone.

“No, thank you,” Famine said. He put his hand on the stack of bills and slid them towards her. “The lady who was here before left this for you.”

“Oh, thanks,” the waitress said, her face brightening a little with a genuine smile. “Are you sure you all don’t need anything?”

“We’re fine. But thanks,” Death said, flashing a brilliant smile at her. The waitress blushed and left.

“Was it necessary to make yourself look like James Dean?” War asked, annoyed.

“What?” Death asked innocently. “He’s not using this face right now.”

“I bet that’s why you offed him,” War said, narrowing his eyes. Death shrugged.

“So what if I did?” he asked.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Pestilence interrupted. “You heard what she said. We have to bring about the apocalypse or we’re fired.”

“Can we be fired?” Famine asked, confused. “I sort of thought we were . . . it . . . for the Horsemen.”

“I don’t know, but she seemed pretty sure that we could be replaced,” Pestilence said. “Do you really want to find out?”

“No, of course not,” Famine said testily.

“Alright then,” Pestilence said. “We need to come up with some sort of plan.”

All four of them lapsed into silence, thinking.

“I could create some kind of new super virus,” Pestilence offered.

“Maybe,” War said slowly. “For this to work, we have to utilize all four of our skills. A new virus could work with Famine and Death, but I’m not sure where I’d fit in.”

The table sank back into silence.

“Could we blow something up?” Death asked War.

“Technically yes, but working with the people currently in charge of the biggest bombs aren’t really all that likely to shoot off enough firepower to do real damage. I mean, that idiot in North Korea is, but his technology is so crap that everyone thinks he’s a joke.”

“Could you help him with his technology?” Pestilence asked.

“Sure, but I don’t think that’d be enough,” War replied.

Famine stared intently at the table, thinking deeply.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Death commented.

Famine sat up a little straighter in the booth and looked up at the other three.

“I was thinking about what War said about how the people currently in charge of the biggest bombs aren’t likely to use them. What if,” Famine said, the wheels visibly turning behind his eyes. “What if we got someone else in power? Someone who would be likely to use those bombs? If we could start another world war, the technology is strong enough to not only kill enough people, but the fallout could infect people and cause all sorts of nasty diseases.”

“Where would you fit into all that?” War asked.

“Well,” said Famine. “I might know a guy who could be perfect for president.”

“President of . . . the United States?” Pestilence asked, her face agog. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Famine said, his confidence growing in his idea. 

“America the ‘melting pot’?” Pestilence asked.

“Oh yeah,” Famine said. “It’s diverse, but everybody hates each other.”

“It’s true,” said War. “Even the so-called ‘hippies’ can be massive dicks to each other and blow up shit as eco-terrorists.”

“Eco-terrorists?” Pestilence asked. “Nicely done.”

“Why, thank you,” War said, bowing slightly with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Okay, enough about you,” Famine said. “Like I said, I think I know a guy.”

“Who?” Death asked.

“A businessman in New York,” Famine said. “He’s a billionaire who likes to pretend he’s a real estate mogul.”

“If he’s only pretending, how did he get to be a billionaire?” War asked.

“His dad was the real businessman,” Famine explained. “This guy inherited everything when his dad died and has driven himself into corporate bankruptcy four times.”

“So then how is he still a billionaire?” War asked, still confused.

“Tax evasion, offshore accounts, lots of corrupt deals overseas,” Famine said. “All the usual shit those rich guys always pull.”

“Alright, so who is this guy?” Pestilence asked. “And why would Americans vote for him?”

“His name is Donald Trump,” Famine said. 

“Wait, didn’t he have a reality show?” War asked.

“Yes, yes he did,” Famine agreed.

“Which one?” Pestilence asked.

“That one where they pretend like he’s the best businessman ever and people compete to be his protege,” War explained. “It sucked, so they turned it into a show where celebrities embarrass themselves for charity.”

“Oh, right, I remember that one,” Pestilence said. “Is Trump the guy who overdoes it on the fake tan with the terrible hair?”

“Yeah, he looks like an angry Cheeto,” Famine said. “Anyway, I think Trump could be our guy. He’s made some offhand comments in the media about running for president, although I suspect those statements were more for attention than anything else.”

“What makes you think he’d really want to run for president?” War asked.

“The guy’s a complete narcissist,” Famine explained. “He loves power and there’s no more powerful position on the planet than being the president of the United States.”

“And you think he could win? He sounds awful,” Pestilence said.

“Oh, he is. And yes, I do. He appeals to the insane fringe groups by running his mouth on social media sites like Twitter and I think he’d create such a media circus that he’d be impossible to ignore during a campaign.”

“So, say we get him elected,” Death said. “Then what? You think he’s actually volatile enough to start a war?”

“Oh, definitely,” Famine said. “He has the thinnest skin imaginable and his reaction to negative criticism is always volatile. Usually, he just threatens to sue everyone, but with the nuclear codes, he’d just bomb the shit out of everyone. Plus, because he’s an idiot, he’s very easily swayed. Especially when hungry.”

“And you’re sure this will work?” Pestilence asked.

“Well, no, of course not. I don’t think we can be sure of anything,” Famine said. “I’m open to suggestions, but this might be our best bet.”

The table was quiet for a moment, considering this.

“This plan is insane,” Death finally said.

“Yup,” Famine agreed. “Completely.”

The four of them lapsed into silence again.

“Did I mention he’s an anti-vaxxer and thinks the MMR vaccine causes autism?” Famine asked.

“Alright, fine,” Pestilence said. “But this better work.”

“It does seem like this guy might be our best bet,” Death said. “But what happens if he loses the election? What then?”

“I guess we can’t let him lose,” Famine said with a shrug. “It’s either that or we get fired.”

“I still don’t get what exactly that would entail,” Pestilence said.

“Do you want to find out?” Death asked. Pestilence shook her head.

“Do you think they’re still serving breakfast?” War asked suddenly. The other three stared at him. “What?” War asked. “Planning the apocalypse always makes me hungry.”


	3. Make America Great Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Famine visits Donald Trump to plant the idea of running for president.

“Mr. Amin?

Famine looked up from his magazine at the pretty brunette poised behind the reception desk.

“Yes?” he asked. The reception desk was a heavy piece of furniture embellished with thick gold edging. The wraparound style of the desk looked, to Famine, more like a fancy dog pen than a workspace for a human.

“Mr. Trump will see you now,” the receptionist said, gesturing to the large oak door behind her.

“Thank you,” Famine said. She smiled and turned back to the computer on her desk. Famine tossed the magazine down on the waiting area table and stood, buttoning his suit jacket. Be brushed off an errant piece of lint and picked up his briefcase before he headed for the office door. He paused and rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Come in!” a raspy voice called. Famine turned the ornate gold handle--Jesus, what was with all the gold?--and entered the office.

“Mr. Trump?” Famine asked as he opened the door. A doughy, overly tanned man stood up behind a massive wooden desk and held out his hand. Famine noticed the pudge of fat spilling out over the man’s belt like bread dough. “I’m Fred Amin, thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to meet with me,” he said, extending a hand.

“Oh sure, no problem,” Donald Trump said, shaking Famine’s hand. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the leather club chairs in front of his desk. Famine sat.

“You a finance guy? You look like a finance guy,” Trump said.

“Wall Street, born and bred,” Famine said smoothly. Trump nodded approvingly.

“I like a man who understands money,” he said. “Men who understand money, understand the way the world works.”

“Spoken like a man who knows what he’s talking about,” Famine said with a charming smile. Internally, he suppressed his gag reflex. He hated pandering to humans, especially ones as stupid as this guy, but the flattery seemed to warm Trump.

“So, what can I do for you?” Trump asked, sitting back down in his own chair with a small grunt. He reminded Famine of an overweight pug.

“Well, sir, I’ll be blunt: I think you should run for president,” Famine said. He wasn’t sure if a direct approach was going to impress or annoy Trump. However, luckily for Famine, it appeared to flatter him and a small smile played across Trump’s lips.

“Oh you do, do you?” Trump asked, his smile growing wider. “And why is that?”

“The current administration is shameful,” Famine said. Trump nodded in agreement. “You’ve been very vocal in opposing Obama, which means I like the way you think. Plus, what our country really needs is a strong businessman, a strong leader, to help make America great again. Other countries are laughing at us because of the disorganized mess we’ve become. Someone as successful as you, who is as passionate as you, could, in my humble opinion, really do something about it.”

Trump leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully.

“What makes you think I want to be president?” Trump asked.

“I’ve seen you on the news and I remember you making some comments about possibly running for president. I’m not sure how seriously you meant those comments, but I think it’s something you should really consider.”

Trump nodded.

“I’ve thought about it,” he admitted. “I agree with what you’re saying, about how this country needs a good businessman. And what better businessman is there than me?” he asked with a jovial laugh. Famine grinned a sycophantic grin and suppressed an eye roll.

“So what’s in it for you?” Trump asked. “Why schedule a meeting with me to talk about this?”

“I get a strong, American-born leader for my country,” Famine said smoothly.

“And that’s it? Really?” Trump asked skeptically, leaning forward a little. “Everybody wants something. I know I never do anything for free. That's why I'm so successful.”

“There’s nothing I specifically want, but I’d be willing to assist with your campaign in whatever way you might need me,” Famine said. “I’ve got a lot of Wall Street contacts who could be big donors for your campaign.”

Trump nodded again. Famine tried not to stare at his horrible blond hair. How did it stay so still? Was it even real hair? Maybe not his hair, but it had to be someone’s hair. He couldn’t imagine this guy with anything plastic, excluding his latest wife’s breasts.

“Well,” Trump said. “I suppose I am going to need some people to help run my campaign. I’m a very busy man, a very important man. I like to surround myself with the best people.”

“I’d be honored to be considered,” Famine said.  
“Yes,” Trump agreed. He stood up, signaling their meeting was over. Famine did the same. “Well, Fred--can I call you Fred?”

“Of course.”

“Fred, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Leave your card with my secretary, I’m sure I’ll be in touch,” Trump said, shaking Famine’s hand again before he opened the office door for him. “What was that you said? Make America great again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like it,” Trump said with a grin. “Make America great again. Good to meet you, Fred.”

“You too, Mr. Trump.”  
“Please,” he said. “Call me Donald.”

Famine left the office and Trump closed the door behind him. He could practically hear the idiot practicing his inaugural address the way starlets practiced their Oscar speeches. Famine smirked.


	4. To Tweet or Not to Tweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Four Horsemen meet in Manhattan to strategize for Trump's campaign.

“You just came out and said it?” Pestilence asked. “Just like that?”

She had abandoned the soccer mom khaki pants and haircut and instead wore a sleek black pantsuit with smartly bobbed blonde hair. Now, Pestilence looked like any other female professional at Jean Georges. Death had also upgraded to a collared shirt and tie for the occasion.

“Yup,” Famine said as he took a sip of his water. “You couldn’t have worn something a little better than that?” he asked, turning his attention to War’s tuxedo t-shirt.

“What? It’s classy!” War protested.

“I’m surprised they let you in the door,” Famine said, eyeing the t-shirt with disgust. “We’re supposed to blend in.”

War shrugged.

“Just tell someone I’m the redneck cousin from out of town,” he said. “You might even get them to comp your wine out of pity.”

“Whatever. We have bigger things to focus on than War’s stupid outfit,” Death said with a shrug. “Do you really think that idiot is going to run for president?”

Famine nodded as he took a sip of his water.

“I do, although I might need to get in there again to encourage him to make a formal announcement. He’s already said it on Twitter, but it was buried in between several misogynistic posts, so it’s entirely possible that no one took it seriously. We’ll need to get him to hold an official press conference.”

“How quickly could you get one organized?” War asked.

“This afternoon. The guy is obsessed with attention, he practically gets a hard on anytime there’s a news camera around,” Famine said.

“Speaking of his Twitter account,” Pestilence said thoughtfully as she scrolled through her phone. “Should we consider disabling it? I’m going through it and his posts make him sound insane. He can’t spell and he insults everyone who isn’t in his immediate family. If we want people to take him seriously, shouldn’t we reign this in a little?”

Death leaned over to look at Pestilence’s phone and wrinkled his nose a little as he scanned the messages.

“Really, Famine? This guy is your plan?” Death asked. “He’s awful and completely unelectable. Barack Obama is thoughtful and well spoken; no way people are going to want to go backwards.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting one thing,” Famine said. “Obama is also black.”

“So?” War asked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Where there’s progress, there’s push back,” Famine said. “Humans are stupid and it takes them far too long to make any real steps forward. Plus, there are always some who will believe anything, like the ones who think the Earth is flat.”

Pestilence rolled her eyes.

“Christ, I need to make another plague,” she muttered. 

“My point is,” Famine continued, “look at how many likes and reposts Trump’s messages get on Twitter. His followers may be stupid, but they love him.”

“And you think they’ll continue to love him if he keeps saying this stuff while trying to convince people he’s the best candidate to lead the free world?” Death asked skeptically. Famine nodded.

“Absolutely. After all, there are some people who believe the government controls the weather,” Famine said. As if to illustrate his point, a large crack of thunder shook through the building and rain began to pour from the sky in a deluge on the streets of Manhattan. A tray of water glasses fell and shattered on the restaurant floor.

“Dude, come on. I’m on my motorcycle today,” Death protested. Famine shrugged and the rain dissipated. The rest of the diners and the staff in the restaurant all stared out of the windows, murmuring to one another about the sudden weather shifts.

“Sorry,” Famine said, not sounding the least bit sorry at all. “I forgot.”

Death grumbled before taking a sip of his water.

“What was that?” Famine asked.

“Nothing,” Death said curtly, glaring at Famine.

“Guys, come on, let’s focus,” War said, glancing between the other two who looked like they were squaring off for a boxing match. “So his fans are nuts, but do you think there are enough of them to win Trump the election?”

Famine shrugged.

“Worst comes to worst, there are ways around that,” Famine said. “After all, it’s not like this would be the first time we stuffed some ballot boxes.”

The other three horsemen nodded in agreement.

“Alright, fine, the Twitter account stays,” Pestilence said. “But I reserve the right to open this back up for discussion in the event that it starts to damage the campaign.”

“Fair enough,” Famine said. 

“Yeah, because this plan has to work,” Death said. “I’m really not interested in what the devil means by ‘fired.’”

“Me either,” War added.

“Like I do?” Famine asked, narrowing his eyes. Pestilence rolled her eyes and stood up. 

“Look, I have to go poke some holes in the condoms at the free clinic,” she said. “Are we done here?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you all know when I’ve set up the press conference,” Famine said, pushing his chair back from table. War and Death stood up as well and the four of them walked outside. As they all turned to head in different directions, a light rain began to fall. Death stopped and heaved an irritated sigh.

“Really?” he called after Famine. Famine didn’t turn around, but held up his middle finger as he walked away. “Jackass,” Death muttered.


End file.
